


Upon a Gossamer Thread

by Bastetmoon



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Family Drama, Incest, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, finwian family dynamics, implied of curufin/celegorm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 20:00:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7067971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bastetmoon/pseuds/Bastetmoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Each time Curufin bites, and Finrod takes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Upon a Gossamer Thread

Each time Curufin bites, and Finrod takes. Teeth and nails sink into pale skin, leaving marks that trail on for days. The courtiers whisper, and for now he lets them.

Soon there will be no one left to tell.

 Each time they play their twisted game of cat and mouse Curufin wonders if his cousins knows just how close he is to losing. The smile—flash of white teeth—across the glided expanse of the room tells him so.

 Finrod knows he plays with fire, perfectly aware he will be burned, that his own cousin will be the one to send him crashing down into darkness. But oh, what a beautiful fall.

“My king.” The words flow from his tongue, smooth as honey but biting with the irony of the situation. _You are no King to me Felagund, for my father, and my brethren are ever greater than yours._ Yet he offers up a mocking bow, bent forward ever so slightly. _Someday you will bow to me cousin_. “Why have you summoned me?”

The necklace about Findrod’s neck—which he wears always—gleams in the firelight, though not as bright as the unbound curls of his hair. Curufin longs to tear from him, watch it melt in the fires of his forges, even as he watches the king melt before him upon silky sheets, in the tender hours of the morning. Or perhaps he might even don it himself, king of all.

“There are troubling matters we must discuss…” Blue eyes scan the room, the gilt furniture casting long shadows in the candlelight, empty but for them two. “Where is your brother?”

Curufin tosses his head. Hair unbound falls in a cascade of pitch. “Hunting.” The answer is enough. They do not speak of what his wild brother does, alone in the woods. He will return in the night, trailing filth and covered in blood—his own or something else’s. In this way he is predictable. “Do you have great need of him?”

“I had hoped to speak to you both together.”

“Am I not enough for you cousin? I confess am hurt.” Dark eyes glitter and words hint a tone that does not sound hurt at all. Patches of dull scarlet seep their way across Finrod’s skin. Insidiously do Curufin’s words spill from his tongue, splashing out against the gilded expanses of the chamber. “Do you blush my king? Are you ashamed of us? You wish to keep a secret perhaps, what you do with your cousins behind so many closed doors.”

“I did not summon you here to speak of _this_.”

“No?”

“My courtiers grow uneasy. They claim you seek to—“

Languidly Curufin steps across the room, closing the distance between them in a few graceful strides. One hand draws aside the collar of his robes to reveal a few inches of pale skin. “Don’t you like it?”

“L-like what?” Traces of uncertainty tug at Finrod’s voice.

“To see me such, of course.”

With a tug at the chord that contains it Curufin’s dark hair is unbound, falling in a cascade of pitch down his back. The animosity that had dominated his features since arriving in nargathrond seemed to dissipate until all that remained was a mild annoyance. Finrod can almost recall him being such in Valinor, before the darkening. _Unburdened._

A chuckle escapes past barred teeth, “Why do you stare so Felagund?”

“Because you are beautiful.”

A sour look flits across Curufin’s features before giving way to a milder sort of amusement. “You think your flattery wins you any favors here? I am not one of your simpering courtiers.”

“Does it not?” Even in the midst of his spite, Finrod can see how the color has risen in the feanorian’s delicate features. The sharp glint of lust in his eyes.

With a savage, half snarl Curufin shoves the King backward. It is not so strong a push but unbalanced as he is Finrod sprawls upon the coverlet in a spray of gold and green.

A moment later Curufins strong hands are on him, teasing away the layers of heavy fabric.

“Ha!” breath comes out in a little huff, and Curufin sinks his teeth into the king’s shoulder.

“The valar will curse us for this”

“Certainly.” Curufin agrees, for a moment meeting Finrod’s eyes. There is a wildness, a fae light, in his eyes. Softly he lets a hand trail across the hard planes of the King’s stomach. Finrod groans, breathe hitching in his chest. “But you love it, don’t you cousin?” Curufin lets that last word linger, a palpable reminder of their relation. It hangs in the air like a cloud of dull opiate smoke. Heady and enticing yet dripping with acknowledgement of _this_ , their joint degradation.

Every nerve in Finrod’s body screams that this is wrong, to lay upon the coverlet so openly with his cousin by blood, to let those pale hands spider their way across his skin. But when the words leave his mouth they come as nothing more than a whispered “Yes.”  And Curufin chuckles.

The first time they had done this Finrod had asked if lying with him in such a way felt like a betrayal of Curufin’s vows. He had only laughed, “Telperiel, Amarie, they are all dust in the wind cousin.” Finrod’s heart panged painfully at the mention of his long sundered beloved. In his mind she stands a bride of gold and glass. “They did not follow us and for that they must be forever traitors.”

He doesn’t ask anymore. He only takes. Fingertips delve into the silken expanse of the bed sheets as Curufin brushes up against something wonderful inside him. For a moment all sense of wrongness flees from Finrod’s mind.

* * *

 

After, they lay upon the gold spun sheets and allow the sweat to cool from their bodies. Somewhere, in the halls beyond, Finrod warrants a flute is playing. Long fingers twine together and among the fabric. Their chests rise and fall as their breathing slows. Carefully—so as not to disturb the quiet—Finrod props himself up upon his elbows and looks down upon his lover.

Curufin’s hair spreads out against the pillows, a dark cloud around the pale oval of his face. His not—Finrod thinks—the young boy who would once follow him into the woods as he hunted game with his siblings. There are scars now upon the pale skin, and burn marks from when his own creations ruined themselves upon the anvil.

“Curvo.” He whispers the nickname that he for so long, not since Valinor when the world seemed brighter and all the colors more vibrant.

Curufin shifts against him but does not draw away. In the silence his breath comes as a gentle sigh. “Findarato.”

And Finrod smiles, because this time he has won. Or at least he thinks he has not lost.

 

* * *

 

 

Sometime late in the night Curufin slithers from between the silky coverlets. His robes lie forlorn upon the cold stones of the floor. A pale hand scoops them up, wrapping the now cooled silk about himself in stately cocoon.

With silent footfalls he goes to the edge of the bed, staring down upon the sleeping king. Finrod does not stir. Candlelight flickers across the sleeping face. Honeyed skin and hair to match. Angelic, peaceful, the antithesis of he who stands at his bed side. Times like these he can almost, _almost_ forget why he hates him so.

With a little huff Curufin extinguishes the candles, letting the smoke drift in hazy curls towards the ceiling, and plunging the room into night.

The door clicks shut behind him.

“Enjoy yourself brother?” His brother’s soft growl curls through the shadowed hallway.

Celegorm leans against one carven wall. Eyebrows draw together as he regards his younger sibling. A long hunting knife and a roughly carved flute hang at his belt. The lanterns paint swirling shadows across tanned skin. _In this light he almost looks like—_ but no, Celegorm’s hair was always more silver than gold and unlike their cousin he wears it bound.

Tossing his head, Curufin makes a motion to brush past him. A strong hand catches him by the arm. “What are you doing here Tyelko?”

“You think you alone skulk in shadowed hallways? Nay.” A broad grin, sharp teethed like the wolves he loves so mush, splits across Celegorm’s face. “But tell me what business leaves you, slipping in such a state from the chamber of the king? And so early in the morn?”

Once more Curufin makes to brush past and once more his brother’s grip holds him in place. “It is none of your concern Tyelko.”

Ever so slightly does the smile falter. “Is it not? Do I not ever seek to protect you? To hold your best interests?”

“I do not need your protection.” Something deep, wild, feral, glimmers in the depths of his elder’s eyes. Two hands move to cup Curufin’s, rough from so many a hunt and day spent gripping a spear. They have none of Finrod’s smooth dexterity. Breath hisses hot against his ear.

“Take care then, oh Brother-mine.” The kiss lingers on his forehead—whisper soft—a handful of seconds longer than dictated by formality. “What a shame it would be, to see you lose your graces.” A feral smile twists his lips and something deep, enigmatic lingers in his eyes. Celegorm turns, slopping off down the lantern studded hallway. The flames catch and glimmer upon the silver crown of his hair.

**Author's Note:**

> So this has been floating around on my computer unfinished for a while, but behold! I've finally finished it! Hopefully you've enjoyed this one-shot.  
> Also you may have noticed that I gave Curufin's wife a name in this fic, so for all intents and purposes I'll be keeping her as Telperiel in any future works concerning Feanorian family dynamics.


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